


White and Gold

by lilbluednacer



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Alternate Universe, Angels and Demons, Angst, Assault, Canon-Typical Violence, Claire is 19, Daddy Issues, Dean is 25, Drug Use, F/M, Homeless Claire, Hunter Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Road Trips, Sexual Content, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-17 06:02:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28969509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilbluednacer/pseuds/lilbluednacer
Summary: If Claire didn’t know better she’d think an angel had brought Dean Winchester to her. But she’s known for a long time that angels don’t care about helping her.
Relationships: Claire Novak/Dean Winchester
Comments: 14
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you missed it in the tags Claire is of age, there’s still an age gap between her and Dean but it’s much closer than it was on the show. I’ve never written DeanxClaire before but this concept would not leave me alone. Please check the tags for additional warnings.

_My eyes are wide like cherry pies_  
_I gots a taste for men who are older_  
_It's always been, so it's no surprise_  
-Lana Del Rey, Cola (Pussy)

Claire’s sitting on a stool at the bar with a gin and tonic when she sees the guy come in. The bar is full of locals getting wasted and partying because it’s Friday night and they have paychecks to spend, but Claire is here for an entirely different reason. She watches the guy as he steps around a group of wasted young women blatantly checking him out, registering his leather jacket and sandy hair and world weary expression as he shoulders past some guys guzzling beer. She smooths a few waves away from her face in excitement, he’s the best prospect she’s seen all day.

She pretends to ignore him as he gets closer, aware that the only open stool is to her right. She’s slick when she’s picking up guys, knows that they get along with her better when they think it’s their idea, giving them the false sense of power that they’re in control.

It’s not their fault. She’s just that good.

The guy makes his way over to the bar and sits right down on the stool next to her. She watches him out of the corner of her eye - he must be new in town ‘cus she’s sure she’s never seen him before. He’s dressed casually in a plaid shirt under his jacket and jeans but nothing can take away how gorgeous he is, a strong jaw and light eyes, broad shoulders. 

Claire smiles to herself and spins a little on her stool, sipping her drink. This is gonna be fun. She loves this part right at the beginning when she’s spotted her prey, ensnaring them in her trap. Guys like this are simple, this’ll be easy, so easy. Easy as pie.

“Hey,” she says casually.

He glances sideways at her, momentarily distracted from trying to get the bartender’s attention. “Hey.”

Instead of trying to initiate a conversation she gives him a cool smile and looks away. She drinks and pretends to read something on her shitty flip phone, listening to him order a beer. She waits until he’s drinking to look back over at him, where he’s got his lips wrapped around the bottle, eyes half shut as he drinks.

She catches his eye and raises her glass at him, chugs back the rest of her drink and holds her hand up to order another one. The guy leans a little towards her, doesn’t put his beer down but lets the bottle dangle by his fingertips.

“Hey, whatcha drinking?” His voice is deliciously low and gravely.

“Gin and tonic,” she answers. She prefers harder stuff but she’s working right now, she can’t get too fucked up.

He smirks a little. “Classy.”

She gives him a prim smile. “Thank you.”

“Here, let me.” He gets the bartender’s attention and tells him to put her next drink on his tab.

Clair spins a little on her stool. “Thanks…”

“Dean.”

“Claire.” 

The bartender sets a fresh drink down in front of her, Claire thanks him and holds it up towards Dean. “Cheers.”

He nods and tips his beer at her. “Cheers.”

She watches him, trying to figure him out as he drinks. He’s not rolling in it, based on his clothes and the beer, but he must not be hurting too bad either if he can buy her a drink. Middle class maybe, she thinks, checking out his dusty boots, the unassuming way he slouches a little as he drinks. But she sees touches of vanity too, in the way his hair is cut, his watch, his clean fingernails.

He’s perfect.

She stretches a little, letting her black tee shirt ride up above the waistband of her distressed denim shorts. “You new in town?”

Dean nods, swallows, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Just here for work.”

She tilts her head, letting her hair tumble down her back. “What kind of work are you in?”

He gives her a lazy smile. “Nothing interesting.”

She snorts. “I doubt that somehow.”

“You in school?”

Claire almost laughs. “School’s for suckers.”

He chuckles. “Can’t disagree with you there.”

“So how long are you in town for?”

He shrugs, eyes darting away. “Depends on the job. Few days, maybe.”

That’s at least a few nights, she thinks. If he’s here on business there’s only two places he could be staying in this shithole town far enough outside of Chicago to be considered the suburbs; the Marriott across the street from city hall or the Motel 6 out by the highway. Claire isn’t picky, if she plays her cards right she could have up to three days in a real bed, take a shower, maybe even get some free food out of it. Dean doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d let a girl go hungry.

She lets her right foot rest on the rung of his stool. “You need a tour guide? I’m from around here.”

His eyes scan hers. “You offering?”

She takes a sip of her drink and licks her lips. “You interested?”

He gives her a contemplative smile. “It’s an interesting offer.”

Act cool, don’t push him. “Is it?”

“I’m assuming you’d charge a fee.” There’s something both amusing and kind in the way he’s talking about this like it’s a legitimate business deal, like he takes her seriously or is at least willing to indulge her.

Claire lets the toe of her sneaker brush against his ankle. “I’m sure we could work something out.”

He nods, smiling. “I see. There’s just one small problem.”

“What?” she asks quickly.

He leans in until his lips are almost against her ear, his free hand coming to cup her shoulder. “I don’t fuck teenagers.”

Claire jerks back. “I’m twenty-one.”

“Bullshit,” he snorts.

She tips her drink towards him. “Then how’d I get this?”

He rolls his eyes. “Anyone can get a fake.”

“Well how old are you?” she snipes. 

He grins as he leans back on his stool. “Twenty-five. Care to try again?”

Only six years older than her too, which is young considering some of the men she’s been with. She generally likes them older; boys her age are dumb and impulsive and less likely to blow all their money on her. Older guys know what they’re doing, they can make her come and buy her food and generally want to take care of her.

She knows it’s messed up, her affection for older men. She doesn’t need a psychologist to tell her she has daddy issues. But looking at Dean, old enough to be a proper man but young enough that their age gap isn’t creepy or gross, makes something in her stomach smolder: the hopeful prospect of a fantasy fulfilled. 

If Claire didn’t know better she’d think an angel had brought him to her. But she’s known for a long time that angels don’t care about helping her.

“So I’m nineteen, whatever,” she whisper-hisses. 

He gives her a smug look as he takes another sip of his beer. “I knew it.”

“So what? I’m still legal.”

He raises an eyebrow as he looks at her drink. “You sure about that?”

She smirks. “Not that kind of legal.”

His eyes widen and she catches him check her body out before he quickly looks away. “Look, you seem like a nice girl” -

“Oh please.” Claire snorts. “If you’re gonna reject me you could at least be honest.”

“Look, it’s nothing personal. I’m more of a solo guy, I work alone.”

“What about when you’re not working?”

For a moment she thinks he’s going to cave but then he shakes his head. “I told you,” he mutters. “I don’t screw around with teenagers.”

Her smile twists into a snarl. “Fine, your loss then.” 

He gives her a smile that seems weirdly sad, like he feels bad about turning her down. As if he could hurt her feelings. “I’m sure it is,” he says graciously.

She picks up her gin and tonic and pounds it all back. “Thanks for the drink.”

She hops off her stool and pushes through the crowd of people before he can say anything else to her. She’s fuming by the time she makes it through the crush of bodies and gets outside, her cheeks hot with humiliation and underneath that, a current of panic. It’s not too late though, she has hours until the bars close, she can still salvage the night.

She starts to walk, hands curled into fists as she carefully weaves past strangers on the sidewalk. She’s downtown on a Friday night, the streets are crowded with club kids and people going to fancy restaurants and drunk bar-hopping twenty-somethings. She’s mentally scanning the best bars to hit up next; thinking where she’ll have the best luck, when something yanks on her backpack and she stumbles backwards.

A rough hand holds her steady as something sharp presses against the side of her neck, just under her ear. “Turn left,” a voice murmurs. “Into the alley.”

She walks like she’s floating, barely able to feel her feet stumble into the alley, all of her focus narrowed down to the prick of the knife against her skin. She feels like time is moving in slow motion, the dark alley a swirling shadow as the person behind her shoves her face first into a wall.

A long time ago, back when she was a different girl, her parents told her not to fight back if the person had a weapon. But Claire isn’t that girl anymore.

She throws her head back as hard as she can, feeling it when she connects with the guy’s nose. He shouts out and Claire spins around, reaching out wildly to claw at his eyes or his throat but he catches her wrists in one hand and uses the other to hit the left side of her face repeatedly: her temple, her cheekbone, the corner of her mouth. She kicks out in panic, barely grazing him a few times in a row until somehow she manages to kick him right between his legs.

He groans and releases her wrists but before she can get away he punches her in the stomach and she collapses on the pavement, her head smacking on the ground as the breath gets knocked out of her. The guy kicks her in the side for good measure; Claire groans and as she stares up at the starry night sky she does something she hasn’t done since before her father left.

She prays.

She does it in a broken whisper, reaching for the first prayer that pops into her head, one that her mother taught her when Claire was a child, back when she was a good little girl who said her prayers each night. She doesn’t remember the name of it, or even the first part, all she can recall is the last line:

_Have mercy on me._

_Have mercy on me._

“Hey!” The voice comes from the mouth of the alley, loud and angry. “What the hell are you doing?”

The feet in front of her squeak against the pavement as her attacker runs away, leaving Claire curled up in the fetal position on the ground. She’s too shocked to cry, still trying to get her chest to expand as she struggles to suck in a real breath. She can hear the man from the end of the alley walk towards her and she covers her head with her arms, trembling and defenseless.

“Hey,” he says, softer this time. “Hey, Claire.”

She peeks through her fingers - it’s Dean, the guy from the bar, crouched down in front of her. He reaches out for her and she flinches on instinct, pressing her back against the wall as she hides behind her hands.

“Easy,” he murmurs. “You hurt?”

She groans in response, turning her head to spit out a mouthful of blood. “Dunno.”

“Let me see,” he coaxes, pulling her hands away from her face. He slides a finger under her chin to tilt her face towards him, and whistles. “Damn girl, he got you good.”

“He had a knife,” she wheezes.

“Fucker,” Dean mutters. “You need to go to the hospital.”

“Nu-uh.”

“Claire, you’re hurt.”

She manages to push herself up on her hands, wincing. “Trust me, I’m becoming aware.”

“That’s what emergency rooms are for.”

She groans at the throbbing pain in her skull. “I think I hit my head.”

“Again, hospital. I can give you a ride.”

“Dude, no. Does it look like I have health insurance?”

He works his jaw. “I have a first aid kit back at my motel room.”

She carefully leans back against the wall, holding her throbbing head in her hands. “I don’t need your help.”

“You walk around with your face all jacked up, someone else is gonna try. And that’s if you don’t get stopped by a cop.”

She swallows back tears, she hurts too much to think straight. “Promise you won’t kill me and dump me by the side of the highway?”

He gives her a weirdly solemn look. “Scout’s honor.”

She coughs and clutches her sides. “Don’t tell me you were a fucking Boy Scout.”

“Nah.” He gives her a lazy grin and hooks his hands under her arms. “But I’ve got plenty of survival skills. Okay, up you go.”

She can’t help crying out as he pulls her to his feet. The alley spins and Claire collapses into him, digging her fingers into his leather jacket. “Oh god.”

“Okay, easy, I got you.” Dean wraps his arm around her waist and pulls her up against his side. “My car isn’t parked that far from here.”

Claire lets him drag her out of the alley, his arm the only thing keeping her upright as he walks her down the sidewalk. She feels dazed, she’s been beat up before but she usually sees it coming, hell, she’s usually the one to instigate it. She can’t remember the last time someone caught her off guard like this, attacked her blind, and she knows this feeling, it’s just like the day her father came back and -

_No._

She can’t afford to think about that right now.

Dean leads her to a black muscle car parked on the street outside a diner. He helps her into the passenger seat, buckles her seatbelt for her while she winces and breathes very shallowly, afraid she’s about to do something seriously embarrassing, like puke or or burst into tears. He shuts her door and she slowly curls up in her seat as he walks around and gets into the car. He starts it but instead of pulling away from the curb he leans over her.

“You doing okay?” Dean asks her.

“Been hurt worse than this,” Claire mutters.

“Yeah, whatever you say, tough guy. Do your ribs hurt?”

She braces her hand against where she hit her head. “No. He punched me in the stomach like a little bitch. Knocked the wind out of me.”

“Dick,” Dean agrees cheerfully, and starts the car.

Rock music blasts out of the speakers and she flinches a little at the shock of it, then groans from flinching.

“You okay?” he asks, speeding through a yellow light.

“No, dude, I just got the shit kicked out of me, I’m not fucking okay.”

“Okay, okay.” He waves an apologetic hand at her. 

She figures out he’s staying at the local motel when he turns on the street that merges with the highway. He drives like he’s been doing it all his life, fast and smooth while leaned back in his seat, one hand on the wheel.

Claire zones out while he drives towards the motel. She focuses on not throwing up from the pain, the left side of her face is starting to throb and she’s feeling kind of fuzzy. There’s a part of her that knows this is crazy, to jump into a car with a stranger from out of town, but she hurts and she’s scared and for whatever reason she trusts him, has had a gut feeling about him since she saw him in the bar that he was one of the good guys.

Sometimes she wonders if the angel left a little bit of himself in her, a little magic. She has them sometimes, feelings that aren’t normal feelings - deep sensory experiences that hit her hard and fast, feelings she guesses other people would call intuition.

She wonders if she would’ve sensed the guy who jumped her if she hadn’t been distracted by getting rejected by Dean, her mind wrapped up in figuring out where she was gonna sleep tonight, so focused on her survival she didn’t notice the danger she was in until it was right on top of her. Thinking about that makes her head pound harder and she closes her eyes so she doesn’t have to look at the world flicking by her window.

When they get to the motel Dean parks the car down at the end of the lot, facing the motel. She doesn’t even bother trying to get out of the car, Claire unbuckles her seatbelt and waits for him to get her. He’s gentle helping her out of his car but she still has to stifle a cry as he gets her standing up, crumpling into him.

“Alright, I gotcha,” he says quietly.

Dean locks his car and walks her down to the room at the end of the motel. “This is my room.”

Claire leans against him as he gets the door open and ushers her inside. It’s small, a queen sized bed against the wall, ugly carpet, a tv hanging above a dresser. Dean has his arm around her, letting her give him her weight. It reminds her of being sick when she was a kid, being carried by her father.

“Bathroom’s in there.” He points to a door on their left past a closet.

She winces at the bathroom light when he turns it on. She shrugs her backpack off, wincing as she sets it down outside the doorway. Her mouth tastes like copper and the steady throb of pain in her skull makes her grit her teeth. 

Dean gently nudges her back against the sink and unzips a black toiletries case that’s resting on the counter. “You should sit,” he says, frowning as he examines her face.

Claire sinks down on the closed toilet lid, blinking her eyes furiously so she doesn’t cry. It’s been awhile since she’s been this badly hurt and she hates it, how much she misses her parents right now, what she wouldn’t do for her mother to stroke her hair while her father prays over her. 

She yearns for those moments, when she was an innocent child held in the cocoon of her parents' love. She didn’t think about God much back then, God was her father and his words and that was enough for her, that he knew the ways of the holy word, let the love of God flow through him and the words he spoke every Sunday to the congregation. She believed without question, without doubt.

She can’t even remember it really, feeling devotion like that. The comfort it used to give her. Knowing she had a place in the world, that her soul a precious light of God. She moved through the world like it was holy, a warm bath of God’s love all around her.

Claire understands now, what a naive fantasy that was. The world isn’t full of holiness or love, it’s filled with greed and cruelty, cold hearted people who don’t give a shit about starving girls on the street, people who hurt her because it brings them pleasure. It isn’t safe, there isn’t some benevolent deity in the sky watching over her.

She learned that the hard way.

Dean pulls out an ice pack and cracks it with his hands, wrapping it in a washcloth before giving it to her. “Put this on your face.”

She complies, wincing at the cold. He gets a washcloth wet and then he’s cupping her right cheek as he presses it to her bloody lips. Up close like this she can see how beautiful he really is - green eyes, sharp cheekbones, plush lips, a smattering of freckles. It makes her embarrassed; she hasn’t showered in three days and she’s grimy and bloody, a scraggly street kid barely surviving.

“What happened to you?” he asks in a low voice, dabbing up the blood.

“Why do you care?” she mumbles.

He flings the washcloth into the sink. “Not a fan of people attacking girls.”

“I coulda taken him.”

“Oh yeah, you were totally holding your own.”

“Whatever. He just took me by surprise.” She shivers, hard enough to make her teeth clack together. “He had a knife.”

Dean presses his lips together and a little muscle in his jaw twitches. “You shouldn’t be out alone like that at night.”

“Whatever, Dad,” she says reflexively, and ignores the way it makes something tug at her stomach.

He pitches the bridge of his nose for a moment, making a face she’s seen her old social make countless times, the classic _goddamn teenagers_ one.

“Look, you got someplace to go?” he asks, with a disturbing hint of actual concern, like he genuinely cares about her well-being. “Anyone wondering where you are right now?”

She shrugs. She’s out of the system, she has no living relatives, she’s free to fuck up her life and she’s doing a perfectly good job of it.

“Claire.” It’s dangerous, the way he says her name. Too tender. “Where are your parents?”

She jerks back, a flood of shame making her cheeks flush. “I don’t have parents,” she spits.

“Claire” -

“Don’t.” She can’t bear to hear her name on his lips again, it’s too good, too real, like the way it would sound if someone actually cared about her, and to her fury her eyes fill with tears.

“I should go.” She jumps up but Dean is right there, all muscular and tall and blocking the doorway.

“Hey, Claire, it’s okay” -

“I have to go, I shouldn’t be here.” She ducks under his arm and tries to give him the ice pack but he won’t take it.

“At least let me give you a ride,” he says. C’mon, you’re hurt” -

“I don’t need you to take care of me,” she grits out. “You don’t even know me.”

She collects her backpack and glances at Dean, who’s standing there with his arms crossed, looking at her like she’s being an absolute moron, which she probably is.

“Thanks for helping me,” she mutters, pinching her side so she doesn’t cry. “Good luck with your job.”

She pushes through the motel door before he can try to stop her, the wind whipping through her hair and making tears stream down her cheeks. She stumbles to the parking lot and leans against someone’s minivan, digging her phone out of her backpack with shaking hands.

She reluctantly calls Alex, there’s no way in hell she’s calling Randy and there’s no one else in her phone that she trusts.

Alex answers on the second ring. “Yo girl, what’s _up?_ ”

She sounds happy, which means she’s high. “You with Henry?”

A giggle. “Yeah. What’s up, you wanna party?”

Claire wipes her nose. “Can you guys come pick me up?”

“Hang on.” Claire can hear her whispering. “Sure girl, where you at?”

“The motel.”

“Alright, cool, no problem baby girl. See you in fifteen.” Alex must be too fucked up to wonder why Claire’s all the way out here.

The connection ends, a loud _beep beep beep_ as Alex hangs up. Claire puts her phone in her backpack and spits onto the blacktop; her mouth still tastes like blood. She takes a deep breath, the ice pack is dripping with condensation and her fucking head hurts and she hates herself for running out of that motel room but she also hates herself for wanting to stay.

She pushes off the minivan with a sigh and starts trudging towards the main entrance so Dean can’t see her standing out here by herself, waiting for Alex.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the support, so glad you guys are liking this so far :)

_They mistook my kindness for weakness_  
 _I fucked up, I know that, but Jesus_  
 _Can't a girl just do the best she can?_  
-Lana Del Rey, Mariners Apartment Complex

Alex and Henry pick Claire up in Henry’s ancient Buick sedan. It’s rusting and basically the size of a small boat, but Henry always says it’s a good thing, that cars this old were made with steel, they can withstand anything.

Claire collapses into the backseat, groaning, hand coming up to the side of her head. The car smells like weed and Henry’s cologne, the upholstery torn but still soft.

Alex twists around and her eyes widen as she sees Claire’s face. “Damn bitch, what happened to you?”

“Got jumped,” Claire mutters, curling into the corner of the backseat.

“Poor baby.” Alex reaches out and tenderly pats the good side of Claire’s face. “So hey, Randy’s having this thing” -

Claire groans. “Alex, no.”

“No, listen,” Alex coaxes. “It’s chill, okay? We can crash there tonight.”

“Fuck.” Claire hates Randy, she’s never forgiven him for trying to give her away to those sickos he owed money to. But then again, he always has a crash pad when necessary, and good drugs. 

“Would you rather sleep under the overpass again?” Alex is too high to sound mean, but Clair gets her point.

They tried it one night, brought their own tent and everything to an area known as tent city, and spent the night sitting up in terror, waiting for sometime to try to rape them or steal their stuff. 

They never went back.

“He said we could crash there?” It seems worth clarifying, as that’s the only reason she can tolerate going there, and she hates herself even more for not staying with Dean.

“Yeah, babe, there’s a couch with your name on it. C’mon, it’ll be okay.”

Claire rubs her eyes. She has two options here, go with Alex and Henry to Randy’s or drag herself back to Dean’s motel room and beg for mercy, and both of them are humiliating on some level.

“Fine,” she agrees. “But he better be cool.”

“Yeah, yeah, everything’s cool, promise.” Alex slides her hand over to Henry’s thigh. “C’mon, let’s go babe.”

Claire gets nauseous on the drive back into town, and the second Henry manages to parallel park outside Randy’s small ranch house she stumbles out of the car, sucking in cool night air. Alex grabs her backpack for her and they follow Henry up the walk.

Inside the air is filled with smoke from bongs and pipes, cigarettes and incense. Henry disappears to get a drink and Alex drags a reluctant Claire to the bathroom and makes her sit on the toilet seat, just like Dean did.

Claire bites the inside of her cheek, she shouldn’t still be thinking about him. It’s not healthy for her; she’s been on her own since she was fifteen and she can’t entertain fantasies of being saved, someone who will take her out this life and somewhere better.

Almost anything would be better than this.

Alex examines her carefully but she’s also high and at some point she starts giggling, kissing the bruises on Claire’s face until Claire softens into her.

“I’m sorry, babe,” Alex whispers. “I woulda kicked their fucking ass.”

Claire sighs. Alex is her only friend, the only person Claire’s even a little close to. “I know you would’ve.”

“Well, well, look who showed up.” Randy’s standing in the doorway, greasy hair pushed back from his face, beady little eyes staring at her. 

“Hey,” Alex says for the both of him. “We’re cool to crash here tonight, yeah?”

“Sure.” He saunters into the small bathroom, scanning Claire’s face. “Looking good, Novak.”

“Fuck you,” she snaps back, and Alex tenses beside her but Randy just laughs.

“Don’t be mad, Claire-baby. You want something to feel better?”

She blinks rapidly, she does want something but she doesn’t want him to think she needs anything from him either. “Sure.”

He snorts. “Preference?”

“Got any narcos?”

“For you? Always.”

He digs out a bottle of Vicodin from under the sink and shakes three of them into her palm.

“I don’t need that many” -

Randy curls her fingers over her palm. “For later.”

A flash of nostalgia runs through her, remembering when it thrilled her to be touched by him. “Okay.”

She tucks the extra two pills into her pocket and swallows down one with the raspberry Smirnoff Henry brings in for her and Alex. They go back to the living room and Claire crawls onto the sagging old couch in the corner, motioning to Henry and Alex to have fun without her.

She takes her backpack and shoves it under her head, and then slides her hand up under it, unzips a pocket and digs around until she finds her pocket knife. She curls her hand around it and drags a blanket over herself.

It’s loud, music is pumping through speakers and people are yelling and dancing, smoking and drinking all around her but Claire closes her eyes anyway. After so many years on the street she’s learned how to sleep through anything but it’s never good sleep, one eye practically open, always ready to run even when she’s unconscious. The pill starts to kick in though and soon she’s warm and not thinking about tomorrow, her bruises, her parents, anything, and then she falls asleep.

*

Claire wakes up feeling like she got run over. She’s stiff and achy everywhere, she has a major headache and her mouth tastes disgusting. All around her are remnants from the party - empty liquor bottles and crumpled red cups, cigarette butts and beer. She doesn’t know where Alex and Henry are but she can track them later, right now she wants to get the fuck out before she has to deal with Randy.

She gets a black sweatshirt out of her backpack and tugs it on, her hair reeks of smoke and it makes her gag. She tiptoes towards the front door and she almost makes it before a hand on her wrist whirls her around.

“Where’re you going?” Randy asks.

Claire swallows back the taste of dried blood. “Out.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Thanks for letting me crash.”

“Yeah, about that…” Randy strokes his chin. “Shit ain’t free around here.”

Her stomach sinks like a rock. “What?”

“You owe me, Claire-baby. I could be renting that couch out but I saved it just for you.”

“Are you fucking serious?”

He smirks and it takes everything in her not to slap him. “Eighty bucks a night. Plus those Norcos run ten apiece, so…”

She stares at him. “I don’t fucking have a hundred dollars.”

“Hundred-ten.”

“Fuck you,” she spits, but he only grins.

“We could do that. I’d accept that as a form of payment.”

“Not happening,” she growls, and shakes out of his grip. “I’ll get your money.”

“How?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Okay.” He reaches around her and opens the door. “See you tonight, then.”

“What?”

“My money, Claire. I need it by tonight.”

She swallows the urge to scream. “Whatever. Fine.”

“Pleasure doing business with you, darling.”

“Whatever, I’m leaving now.” 

This time Randy doesn’t stop her.

Claire drags herself to the gas station two blocks away, fuming. She buys a large drip coffee and a bottle of water, and goes into the small bathroom. 

She gets a makeup wipe out of the pack she shoplifted from CVS last week and stubs off her face, splashes her face and re-does her makeup. She brushes her teeth over the sink and braids back the top section of her hair, and slips out of the gas station.

She forces herself to guzzle half the water bottle down right there in the parking lot and shoves it into the side pocket of her backpack. She pulls her hood up over her hair, grips her coffee and trudges to the bus stop.

She takes the first bus she can get to Springfield and gets off when she’s downtown.  
Claire takes it slow, walks around a little, getting into the right vine. There’s a trick to this, some kind of elegance only another petty criminal could see, a technique to stealing.

She has to be slick, quick, and be able to dissolve into a crowd. It's like a dance really, between her and her target, a heart pounding tango as Claire gets close enough to slide her hand into a back pocket or a tote bag or the inside of a jacket.

She warms up with a business guy she picks at random, some middle aged white guy wearing a grey overcoat over his suit. She slowly closes the gap between them, headphones on, just another teenager lost in their own private world. She checks over her shoulder to make sure there’s no one looking directly at her, and plunges her hand into his coat pocket.

Her fingers grasp the edge of the wallet and she palms it, transfers it up her sweatshirt sleeve in three seconds flat, and peels right to go inside a Starbucks.

She goes straight to the bathroom and locks herself inside, shaking out the wallet with a racing heart. This is the best part, why it’s worth the risk in the first place. It’s such a rush, like snorting cocaine or making out with a cute boy. She flips it open and starts going through it, and her heart sinks.

There’s six useless credit cards and only fifteen dollars in cash.

Claire takes a deep breath against the panic and takes out the money. She shoves the bills in her own wallet and leaves the stolen one on the bathroom counter.

She decides just because it’s a slow start doesn’t mean she can’t make it a good day, and goes back out on the street.

*

By lunchtime Claire’s stolen thirty-eight dollars and the panic has become a constant companion. She can’t figure out how she’s gonna manage to steal eighty more dollars unless she starts snatch ‘n grabbing, which isn’t exactly subtle and way more of a risk than she’s comfortable with.

She gets on a bus instead and heads to the mall. She doesn’t boost a lot but maybe Randy will consider it an alternative form of payment. She unzips her backpack halfway and carries it on one shoulder into a beauty supply store so it’ll be easier to slip things into it. 

She walks like she knows what she wants, she goes directly to the hairspray aisle and finds the most expensive bottle, and slips three of them into her backpack. She grabs a fourth bottle and carries it to the register, where she pays twenty-four of her hard earned dollars on it. She walks out of the store with her head down and keeps going, relieved when no one calls out to her.

She scopes out the stores as she walks, looking for something easy, when she realizes she’s been walking behind a woman pushing a stroller with the diaper bag hanging on it, and her wallet is almost falling out of her bag.

Claire watches it, transfixed. It’s right there, she could take it, and then a miracle happens - the stroller hits a bump as the woman navigates it around a curve and the wallet slides right out. Claire holds her breath but the woman doesn’t notice, and keeps going.

Claire stoops down and scoops it off, and rushes over to an alcove by the drinking fountains. She unzips the wallet and almost falls over - there’s nearly a hundred dollars in it, and she’s so happy she could cry.

But.

But this money is for a woman with a baby, a tiny helpless thing who needs milk and diapers and if Claire keeps this wallet she’ll be the bad guy, she’ll be the reason this woman will have a terrible day, she’ll be the villain in the stories the baby will end up hearing about.

Damnit.

Claire runs out of the alcove and she’s not too late, the woman hasn’t gotten very far. “Excuse me!” Claire shouts out. “Excuse me! You dropped this!”

She holds the wallet out, and up close the woman is mid thirties, bags under her eye and shadows under her eyes.

“Oh!” Her hands tremble a little as she takes the wallet back from Claire. “Oh, thank you, sweetheart.”

“You’re welcome,” Claire says solemnly, eyeing the baby.

It’s wearing a soft pink headband and a grey onesie with little pink unicorns on it, and the baby has fat cheeks, pouty lips, and long thick eyelash. Claire used to be a baby like that, dressed up and beloved, doted upon.

Claire blinks tears out of her eyes, gives the baby a little wave, and walks away.

*

By the time she gets home it’s dark and rainy outside, and all Claire has to show for her day are four stolen bottles of hairspray and fourteen dollars. She could go back to Randy’s now and beg, or she could try to squeeze out a little more money.

Claire hates panhandling but she does it occasionally. She has a little cardboard sign Alex made that she carries in her backpack (hungry, god bless), that she uses, and when she’s lucky she can get a little cash.

Claire starts to walk to the diner on fifth, a reliably good spot to hang out. Within a few minutes she’s soaking wet; she flips her hood up and tries to ignore her damp skin as she trudges through the rain.

When she makes it to the diner she leans against the side of the wall a few feet from the entrance and closes her eyes. She hasn’t eaten all day and she’s lightheaded, she’s shivering from the cold and from the panic that never went away. She has to sleep somewhere dry tonight so she doesn’t get pneumonia and die, which means dealing with Randy.

Her eyes fill with tears and she keeps them determinedly shut. She hates this feeling, being one disaster away from death. She tries so hard but she’s barely keeping her head above the surface and no matter what she does it’s never good enough.

She smacks the side of her head with her fist. She’s so stupid, she should have stayed with Dean when she had the chance. Even if he still was at the motel she can’t afford the cab fare to get there, and she doesn’t want to explain Dean to Alex, she wouldn’t be able to anyway, not really. And he’s probably gone by now anyway, she fucked up the best chance she ever had because she’s a fuckup, that’s all she does, she screws everything up.

“Claire?”

She jerks and opens her eyes, Dean’s standing a foot away, his car parked against the curb, like an angel transported him here. She stares, dumbfounded, shivering in the rain, trying to swallow her tears.

“Claire, are you okay?”

“Hey Dean,” she mumbles.

“Claire, what are you doing here?” The collar of his leather jacket is pulled up, his head ducked against the wind.

“Nothing.” She can’t even look him in the eye, it’s pretty obvious what she's doing here.

He sighs and raises an eyebrow. “You hungry?”

She lifts her head to look at him and regrets it immediately, he’s so beautiful and she’s just a drowning street kid, doing whatever she has to survive and the shame is so hot she wants to die.

Dean sighs and to her surprise he puts his hand on her shoulder. “C’mon, let’s go in. I’ll buy you a slice of pie.”

She blinks at him, a few tears sliding out that she hopes blend in the raindrops dotting her face. “Really.”

“Sure. C’mon, we’re getting soaked out here.”

“Okay,” she whispers, and resists some weird childish urge to hug him in gratitude.

Dean gives her this weird paternal-like pat on her arm that she likes way too much, and steers her inside the diner.


End file.
